


Why don't I say it then? I want you all the time

by Samcgrath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, F/F, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry Potter, Pining Harry Potter, Slytherin flatmates, also, and she gets shit done, auror harry on a surveillance mission, because where would I be without angst, in draco's kitchen, oh and sassy Harry, pansy knows things, some light manipulating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-09 13:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samcgrath/pseuds/Samcgrath
Summary: Harry's an auror on an undercover surveillance task. The potion smugglers live next door to people he knew in another life, people he never thought would share a flat in muggle London. It's purely for professional reasons that he approaches the Slytherins and tells them he has to set up base in their flat to catch the potion smugglers next door. Only one of them has an objection.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I was hoping to have this finished and posted on Harry's birthday. That hasn't happened. So, here's part 1. Happy Birthday, Harry! 
> 
> Plot - There's an episode of Golden Girls (To catch a neighbour) where cops show up wanting to use their house as a base to catch thieves next door. I loved the scenes and the chemistry between Dorothy and Al. I could see that happening with Draco and Harry. So, here it is.
> 
> Title is from Pork Soda - Glass Animals. Absolute banger of a tune!

A loud, decisive knock on the door comes at the most inopportune time possible. Agent Cooper was about to explain why he's hitting milk bottles with rocks. Pansy huffs and gets off the sofa, eyes still glued to the telly as she backs out of the room. Another knock.

"Will you go?” Blaise snaps at her, not bothering to look away from the screen either.

"I am going!" she spits back.

If he's so concerned about it, why doesn't he go. Well, mostly because it's her turn to answer the door. Everything in this flat happens by turns or it doesn't happen at all. That's just how they live.

And of course, it had to happen when it was her turn. Of course.

"Potter?"

On the other side of the door, stands the Saviour in all his Auror glory: taller than she's ever seen him, and broader. Much broader. Ministry issue scarlet robes billowing about him. And the famous scar stark against his tanned skin. She's never seen the scar so clearly before, Potter used to have his hair covering it back then. Seems like the Saviour's grown out of his awkwardness and embraced his true place in the world.

In the few moments that her mind has taken to compile all this information, Potter has stood there without a word. Perhaps, he hasn't outgrown _all_ of his awkwardness. "Can I help you?” she asks. It seems to startle the Boy Wonder.

"Parkinson."

If it were anyone else, she'd make a snappy remark about their mental incompetence and slam the door in their face. For Potter, she just skillfully raises a single eyebrow.

Potter blinks back at her. Then, he clears his throat and looks away for a moment. When his eyes settle on hers again, there's a hint of determination in them. Or there would be if she could actually see them through the thick glasses he still insists on wearing.

"I'm here on behalf of the Ministry,” he announces squaring his shoulders. My, my isn't that delightful, she thinks. Potter really has grown into himself. A very nice surprise, indeed.

"Can I come in?"

She considers this request, this strange request from the Saviour himself and then considers all the inhabitants of the flat to see if anyone could be in trouble. No, they don't get involved in all of that anymore.

So this visit must be about something Potter wants from them. Once this realisation sinks in, she can't help but smile. This could be fun. "I don't know, can you?"

He rolls his eyes. " _May_ I come in?" 

There may be something salvageable about him after all. She holds the door open wider and gestures for him to go on in. She doesn’t pay any attention to the way his back moves when he does or how firm his legs seem as he brushes past her to get through the doorway. And she certainly doesn't pay any particular attention to other firm things as she follows him in.

Potter stands awkwardly in a corner, eyes darting across the room and widening every so often. She supposes it's because he's seeing things he would never expect to see in a Slytherin flat. Muggle things. The telly to begin with.

Then there's the fan currently washing the room in relieving cool air. Britain's in the middle of a weird weather swing - it keeps raining and then heating up and then cooling down all in the space of a few hours. When it's hot outside, this flat feels like a furnace without a fan. Of course, they could cast a cooling spell but the constant bickering over who should do it and how they should do it and how often is a much bigger headache than anyone here is ready to take on. 

Potter seems particularly surprised by the telly though. His eyes are going back and forth between the television and the man sitting in front of it. It's comical, the way his head seems to oscillate in rhythm with the fan.

Hiding a smile behind her hand at his utter confusion, she yells, "Blaise!” startling both Potter and Blaise.

 _Shouldn't an auror be prepared for everything?_ , she wants to politely ask but is interrupted by Blaise and his overdramatic ways.

Blaise who has dropped the remote on the floor as his hands flew to his mouth. He snaps around with murderous rage, halfway through a very creative curse when his eyes land on their visitor. Pansy's never seen anyone cool down so quickly. He looks like a cat that’s been drowned in ice cold water.

Well, she's never seen anyone do it save one person. One person who tends to have rage always brewing under the surface and is somehow always furious. And then calms down in the blink of an eye when proven wrong. Not that Draco Malfoy would ever admit being wrong.

"Potter?!” Blaise all but screeches, now that he has recovered from his shock.

She sighs. _What is with everyone stating the obvious today._ "Very good, Blaise. Now, what's _my_ name?"

What comes out of Blaise's mouth makes Potter blush like a maiden. He hangs his head and shuffles his feet. He looks ridiculous in his auror uniform right now scuffing the carpet with his Ministry issue boots, all that authority gone out the window.

When it doesn't look like Blaise will stop spewing obscenities at her any time soon, she lifts a hand in his direction. And that usually makes him too angry to find words, being shushed like that. While he's fuming, smoke nearly coming out of his ears, Pansy motions for Potter to follow him. "I'll make tea."

Potter leans against the doorway and watches as she puts the kettle on. When she catches him looking, his head turns away. She really does not care for this game of cat and mouse. Draco should be here, she thinks. He's the one who always enjoyed toying with Potter and vice versa.

A loud twang pulls her attention away just as she's about to say something. Greg is stood behind Potter, all wide eyes like he's seen a thestral in the house. "Wh--why's he here?” he stutters out.

"Don't be rude, Gregory. He's a guest. And pick up that plate, will you?"

She turns to sort out the tea and doesn't look over her shoulder when she hears Greg come in and ask Potter if he's in trouble.

"No. No one's in trouble,” Potter answers easily.

As if summoned by his very words, Blaise materialises out of thin air. He must've been listening outside. Some habits really do die hard.

When tea's on the table and everyone's got a cup, Pansy finally asks the question she's been dying to since Potter showed up. "Why are you here, exactly?"

Three pairs of eyes are trained on him but Potter seems to be able to hold his own. He puts down his cup with an assuredness that reminds her of father. Potter looks at all of them in turn. "As I mentioned, I'm here on behalf of the Ministry. There's a--uh, the people in the flat next to you are smuggling potions into the country. I'm here to ask for your help in catching them."

Well, that is not what she thought he was doing here. In fact, she couldn't possibly have conjured up such a story. Nevertheless, it is happening. Greg and Blaise both look to her for guidance and in the face of difficulty, she has always taken charge.

"When you say help, what exactly do you mean?"

Potter looks down at his hands for a second. She's beginning to think it's a tell, not sure what of. "Surveillance,” he answers. "We will need to set up in this flat for a few days to watch the smugglers."

"We?” she asks pointedly looking at the empty air around him.

He clears his throat. Eyes stolen away once again. Now, that is suspicious. _Why is Harry Potter so incapable of maintaining eye contact_ , she wonders.

"Me, mostly. I mean, it _is_ just me." And this time he doesn't look up from his tea at all.

There it is, scent of blood. She goes in for the kill. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Potter, but don't aurors work in pairs?"

His mouth opens, closes. Opens without a word. Closes.

She's beginning to enjoy this game, to be fair. Perhaps there really is something to be gained here.

Potter seems to squirm under her intent gaze. He has something to hide, that's for sure. She's debating if she should corner him and ask bluntly when he suddenly turns the tables on her. "Usually, yes. But I uh, I got special permission from Minister Shaklebolt to handle this mission on my own."

Isn't that interesting? Once again, she considers being very direct and asking him why he's practically turned the colour of Weasley hair. She also considers making a dig at his sudden discomfort with the topic at hand. She decides against either of those things. In time, she'll work it all out. No need to make Potter run away scared so soon into the game.

Unfortunately, Blaise has returned to the land of the living and has decided to intervene at an inconvenient moment. "And why's that?" he asks.

Potter turns to him and seems to have no trouble answering. Perhaps, he's had time to come up with an excuse. Or perhaps she's being too cynical. "I reckoned you'd be more likely to agree if it was just me rather than me and a stranger in your living space."

That's good logic but she doesn't think that's all. Still, she's not about to question it just yet. Blaise has clearly not got the memo. "Why do you think we would agree to let you into our hom--"

"Blaise, let's give him a chance to speak before we start with the pigtail pulling," she chides. Used to be she could convince Blaise to do anything with a single look. He's grown a lot more independent lately and she's very proud of him for it. It's just that she wishes he'd think sometimes before speaking; he's too much like Draco in that regard.

Blaise glares at her a moment but concedes quickly when she narrows her eyes. At least he has the good sense to know that she's thinking far ahead than him. Blessed be the day when Draco ever realises that.

Anyway, that's a bridge they'll cross when they get to it. She turns all her attention to Potter; it has the desired effect. He blushes further. His hand flies up to disturb his already messy hair. He touches the back of his neck.

She breaks the tense silence. "So you want to be in our flat for a few days so you can keep an eye on the neighbours. Is that it?"

"Yes."

"And why should we agree to this blatant invasion of privacy from the Ministry?"

"It's public service."

"Okay but what will we get out of it? Why do we need to do public service?

"I don't know, how about to make up for that time you tried to give me up to Voldemort?"

She looks at Potter for a moment, hex sitting right on the tip of her tongue, and notes how all his blushing ways are gone and how he looks every bit the Boy Who Lived. Blaise is practically hovering behind her shoulder, Salazar knows when he moved. A hand on his chest settles him. Then she smiles up at Potter. "That's a good point."

Blaise makes a surprised sound, behaving like a common crup about to bite someone. "I think it's a good idea,", she announces and waits for the others to react. Blaise is doing some kind of silent calculation in his mind so she moves on to Greg who looks like he's in pain. "Greg?" she asks softly.

His eyes widen under her gaze. "I uh--I..."

"Yes?"

"Shouldn't we wait for Dr--"

"We'll ask him when he's home," she says cutting Greg off. Potter's sudden interest in the wine stain on the carpet does not go unnoticed. "What do you think?” she asks Greg again.

"I uh... well, if you think it's a good idea...?” he trails off.

"I do. Blaise?"

"Yes, I agree."

She smiles at Potter and tells him they'd be happy to help the Ministry. Potter hesitates in returning the smile. He looks like he wants to say something but she never gives him a chance.

He's sent off with an excuse to clean up the flat so he can return to a more organised place. She even asks him what he likes to eat; _you know so we know what not to cook when you're around._

"We're going to have to eat with him?!!" Blaise barks as soon as Potter is out the door. He did a good job of hiding his loathing while Potter was here because he looks disgusted at the prospect of sharing a meal with the Saviour.

She sighs inwardly. "No, Blaise, we'll make him eat outside in a dish like a crup."

He looks two seconds away from actually barking at her. And this is the easy part of all this, she thinks. Blaise storms out of the kitchen mumbling something about finishing his show.

That leaves her and Greg. She watches him closely as his face goes through a few expressions - confusion, joy, horror. It takes him a few moments to realise that she was being sarcastic and that they won't make Potter actually eat from a crup's dish. He smiles awkwardly at her before leaving the kitchen too.

She lets her head fall onto the table now she's alone. It's exhausting work, manipulation and pulling the strings. The thought of having a similar conversation with their last flatmate sets her head throbbing. "Salazar, give me strength," is all she can say. Not that that will help at all.

***

"Excuse me?"

He has his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed into slits, and face morphed into a mixture of disgust, disbelief, and contempt. That's his snit stance. As much as she despises using the word, he looks incredibly bitchy.

"Will you sit down and listen?", she tries but knows very well that he won't. If only Draco Malfoy could be reasoned with when he's mid-snit.

"Don't tell me what to do!" he yells back.

It's impossibly hard to hold back a sigh and or an eye roll when the Malfoy flair for the dramatic makes an entrance. Merlin, she's never met anyone more overdramatic than Draco. "Are you going to listen to me or should I leave you to moan and whine. I can come back when you--"

"Stop patronizing me, Pansy!"

"I have a headache, Draco, so I'll keep this short. Potter will be here in two hours. He will set up in the kitchen, he's promised to keep out of our way as much as he can. I will be starting dinner in an hour. Now, I'm going to my room to have a lie down."

"You can't force me to let him stay here!"

"I am not. Blaise and Greg and I all agree that this is a good idea. You know what that means."

"This is not buying a bloody mop we're talking about! If I think someone shouldn't be allowed to come into the flat, you can't take a vote on it and make me--"

"Will you at least try to be reasonable abo--"

"It's me or Potter in this flat!"

Greg and Blaise both shift uncomfortably where they're standing behind her. Draco looks triumphant. He usually does when he comes up with these ultimatums, confident in the knowledge that he's won whatever argument is happening.

 _Well_. "Where will you stay?" she asks.

She'd laugh at the sound he makes - somewhere between a squeak and a kneazle being stepped on - if she didn't think that he'd try to strangle her. His eyes are nearly bulging out of his head, mouth white with how tightly he's squeezed it.

The silence is unsettling. He's never this quiet.

Then, one eye twitches. She takes a single step back, just in time to avoid getting spat on when he finally finds words. "You're all bastards! Turning on me like this, you ungrateful scoundrels!"

They let him say what he wants. There really isn't any other way with Draco but to let him rant till he tires himself out. Five minutes later, Blaise is leaning against the wall hiding a yawn behind his hand and Greg is rubbing his eyes. Pansy had sat down knowing this could take a while. Draco's chin looks rather unflattering from this angle but she might as well get up and stab herself with a kitchen knife than say that aloud.

They suffer in silence. 

***

Eventually, Draco gets tired of cursing the last seventeen generations of the Parkinson family. He can see this is going nowhere; these bastards have already stabbed him in the back. He takes a deep breath and finishes with a last threat: "See if I ever let you use my employee discount again!"

"However will I recover from this blow?" Pansy, the utter bitch, responds. Then, she throws herself onto the chaise with an arm covering her face like she's in a damn play.

He storms out and slams his bedroom door shut. He knows how that bothers Pansy. He doesn't give a fuck.

Seething, he paces in his small room. He can only walk about ten steps before he has to turn around; it's frustrating. Not more frustrating than having bloody Potter living here, but frustrating nonetheless. He wishes he was at the Manor where he could pace around in peace.

"Salazar's bloody bollocks!" he yells.

Oh, the rage that's coursing through him right now! He could just strangle Pansy with his bare hands. How dare she force this injustice on him?! How dare they all gang up on him like this!

"You'll pay for this, Parkinson!" he shouts.

He knows she can hear him. He knows she's listening.

He also knows she won't budge.

When it gets too difficult to breathe through the anger, he grabs his keys and storms out of the room. He's almost out the door when she stops him. "Where are you going?"

"Didn't realise I had to ask for your permission to go somewhere."

She has the audacity to roll her eyes at him. After what she's done, she has the audacity.

"I'm just asking. Potter will be here in a--"

"Do I look like I want to be on the _Potter Welcoming_ committee?!" he grinds out.

"Well, you've always been the one obsessed wit--"

"If I were you, I'd stop talking."

She gets the message. Well, some of it. "You're not leaving without a coat, are you? It's cold outside."

"I would take it but it won't fit over the knife lodged in my back!"

Her face does that thing it does when she thinks he's being dramatic. "Okay. Have a good night, Draco."

"I'll try to, despite the knife--"

"--lodged in your back, yes. I get it."

He slams the door in her face and apparates right there on the front step even though he knows he could get in serious trouble for it. He has no time for the Ministry or people who work at the Ministry tonight.

***

Potter shows up at precisely 9 pm as he'd been told. This time when she answers the door, she's faced with someone who could pass for a regular bloke if it wasn't for that scar on his forehead. He's no longer in his auror robes. Instead, he's wearing a jumper like the ones he used to wear at Hogwarts sometimes. The ones he used to drown in, if she's not mistaken. Now, it sits perfectly on his broad frame. He looks more effortlessly muggle than all four of them combined.

If he passed you on the street dressed like this, you wouldn't know it was Harry Potter.

She likes that about him actually. Something they used to judge him for, his insistence that he didn't want to be special or famous. He was telling the truth all along, it seems.

"Right on time, Potter. Come in."

He follows her inside with a nod. There's a kind of nervous energy about him that wasn't there earlier. She wonders if it's because he's starting a mission in a few hours or if it's something else. She leads him into the kitchen and shows him the sofa and table she and Greg moved in here for him.

"We reckoned you'd be in here most of the time." She shrugs it off, mother's voice in her head telling her how uncouth that little movement of the shoulders is.

Potter looks stunned. He takes something out his pocket and enlarges it. It's a bag. He puts it down on the sofa and then turns to her. "Thank you, I really appreciate it."

It's an odd feeling, having Harry Potter's bright Gryffindor smile directed at you. In all her years, she never thought she'd be on the receiving end of it. Sure, they've all seen it before. Seen him smiling like that with Weasley and Granger. Smiling like that when he caught the snitch. Smiling at Chang like that in fourth year. With the Weaslette later. And now here he is, smiling at Pansy Parkinson.

"It's no bother," she manages to say. 

"Still, thank you." His mouth tilts in a crooked smile. He's so bloody earnest.

Merlin is this what being around Harry Potter feels like? No wonder Weasley and Granger never left his side. This is like being on _Felix Felicis_ ; it's constant validation.

Shaking her head, she moves away from him and his intenseness. "Dinner will be in ten minutes, if you want to set up and then join us in the lobby."

He nods and starts unpacking his bag. She wants to stay and find out what else Harry Potter has been hiding all these years but she fears it'll be too much too soon.

Blaise and Greg are both waiting for her at the dining table. Blaise looks like an angry goblin, like he's about to tell her she can't access her vault because she's been a git of the highest order. Greg just looks hungry.

She takes her seat opposite the empty chair. "He's just setting up. It'll be a few minutes."

Not surprisingly, Blaise groans. "We have to _wait_ for him now?"

"You can start eating if you want. I'm sure your mother would be proud of you for gobbling down food before your guest has seated."

She knows how much he values his mother's good opinion. Even mentioning Mrs. Zabini gets him in-line. "Fine," he huffs like a child and crosses his arms. She reaches out and pets his shoulder gently but he shrugs her hand off.

Across the table, Greg is trying not to stare at the food under _stasis_ but failing miserably. He's had a long day at work and probably hasn't eaten since lunch. She hopes Potter will finish soon. 

Finally, Potter comes out of the kitchen looking sheepish. He nods at Greg and Blaise, only one of whom reciprocates. "Oh, I didn't realise you were waiting for me." There's that sincerity again.

"It's no problem," she replies. Blaise makes some sort of disgruntled noise which just about gets on her nerves. "Is it, Blaise?"

He glares at her but mumbles a no anyway. Potter takes the empty seat next to Greg without a word. The moment his arse touches the chair, Blaise is reaching out for the potatoes as if he hasn't eaten in days.

She rolls her eyes and catches Potter watching her with a small smile on his face. He'd fit right in, she thinks. Where it would've bothered her immensely to see Potter amused at Blaise's antics a few years ago, it feels natural to share a smile with him over it now.

Just as she's about to take the first bite of the chicken, Potter clears his throat. She looks up from her fork and finds his eyes already on her.

"Ehm, shouldn't we wait for... Malfoy?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Blaise opening his mouth and cuts in before he can speak. "He's gone out for the night. Dig in!"

It may be her imagination but she thinks Potter's face falls at her words. His head is bowed as he looks down at his plate but there's a certain slump to his shoulders. She sighs inwardly and brings her fork to her mouth.

It is going to be a long few days.

***


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I was so close to finishing this but then Derek Hale happened and I got transported back to 2013 for a while and anyway, I'm back. You've all been very patient with me. Thank you for waiting. Here's part two!

His head is throbbing. Pulsating darkly behind his eyes. The light is his enemy but it's early morning so he can't hide from it. By the time he drags himself to the right street, every part of him hurts. The ground beneath his feet is shaky or perhaps that's his own legs not wanting to cooperate. Circe, he regrets getting so thoroughly plastered.

"Oi! Watch it, mate!" someone says from somewhere. Draco lifts his head, groaning in pain as sunlight burns his eyes, to see a young man walking away from him. He looks over his shoulder, winks at Draco and continues on his merry way. If Draco was in any kind of shape to reciprocate, he would. As it is, he's barely able to hold his head up. The fact that he has to hold on to two different poles to keep himself upright is shameful. _Desecrating the name of Malfoy_ , his father's voice whispers.

"Go away!" he lifts his hand to swat at the voice but ends up hitting an actual physical person--worse, an old lady who is trying to help him stay on his feet. It's an awkward moment, a low point in anyone's life when an old woman who looks like she hobbles around as a means of transportation feels the need to support you. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I thought it was someone else."

She looks at him pityingly for a long moment and he almost snaps and tells her he doesn't need her pity but then he remembers that she is quite literally holding him up right now. She must see something in him because without a word, she pulls on his arm and starts walking.

Draco Malfoy is being led down the street by an ancient woman; this is a definite low point.

She deposits him in front of the flat and then ambles away. Standing there staring at the dark green door, he suddenly remembers he didn't thank her and wishes he knew where she lives. Well, he could just go after her. She's only walked about three feet and he can see her _right there_ but he really can't risk going the extra distance and back. He needs to get inside now. He'll find out about her later. Much later when his head is his friend again.

Seeing doubles doesn't help when he's trying to put the key in the lock. It's a struggle. His balance is precarious at best and the bloody door keeps moving. He crows in triumph when the key slides into the lock and then remembers it's quite early and his flatmates all hate being woken up so he gingerly pushes the door open and tiptoes inside. Nothing could make this moment worse than a sleep-deprived Blaise cornering him with that look of utter madness in his eyes.

_See what a good loyal friend he is? Tiptoeing around, narrowly missing crashing into walls just so he doesn't wake someone up. And for whom is he doing all this? For traitors!_

The flat is pin-drop silent as expected. Clutching his keys, he starts toward his room so he can crash face first into bed and sleep for two days. Then, a thought arrives: you'll be hungover. Get water and a hangover potion.

Nodding at his own genius, he makes a u-turn for the kitchen. The hangover potions are all in the cupboard above the fridge so he starts his journey towards the cupboard but seeing the tap somehow awakens a sudden thirst in him and he makes a beeline for it instead. Despite his best efforts, he ends up knocking over a pot left to dry on the counter which almost clatters to the floor but he manages to catch it just at the right moment. "Still a bloody good seeker, thank you very much!" he mumbles to himself and waits a second or two to see if Pansy's super sensitive hearing has caught him mucking about in the kitchen.

Nothing.

Straightening up, he gently puts the pot down and picks up the glass he was trying to get to in the first place. He's absolutely parched, he realises, as he holds the glass under the tap and waits for it to fill up. His eyes drift up to the window; the day is just starting. Outside, the neighbours' dog is excitedly running around in their garden.

He gulps down two glasses of water without a break. He must be some sight right now. He's glad no one is awake to see him in this state. In his hurry to drink, he's somehow ended up drenching the front of his shirt. It feels cold against his skin, he tries holding it away from his stomach but that doesn't really help. Salazar, what a mess he's made of himself!

Still, he can just go to sleep now and deal with this later. With a hangover potion in one hand and a glass of water in the other, he turns to go to his room and for the first time, notices a figure in the corner.

He's watching Draco. He has seen all of that just now; he's seen Draco stumbling in here and knocking over dishes trying to find a glass, drinking like a hooligan, spilling water all over himself. He's seen it all.

Draco makes an executive decision then. He keeps walking.

He walks out of the kitchen and to his bedroom and puts the potion and water down by the bed and peels off his wet shirt and toes off his shoes and falls face first into bed.

***

If there's one part of her job she hates, it's the waking up in the mornings. Not waking up early in the morning, just waking up in general. Fridays are the worst.

She's usually the first one up on Friday since that's her early day. And being the first one up entails starting breakfast. She's yawning, halfway through rubbing her eyes, as she walks into the kitchen and sees Potter sitting at the table with a steaming mug of tea and a newspaper. Her mouth snaps shut on its own.

The sound makes Potter look up from his paper. He giver her a small smile and gets out of his chair. Before she can protest, he's pouring her a cup of tea.

"Thanks," she says when he hands her the cup. She can't remember the last time someone made her tea on Friday.

"You're welcome."

She hovers close to the table but doesn't sit down, suddenly conscious of her state of undress especially compared to his uniform clad presence. He looks all professional, dressed up and bright eyed behind his glasses.

"Did you forget I was here too?" he asks as if he's read her mind.

She nods and sits down opposite him. Might as well sit and enjoy her tea in this moment of peace. "My brain doesn't start working till I've had a cup of tea," she answers smothering another yawn.

"Yeah, it's still early," he agrees quietly.

He hasn't batted an eye at her yawning ways. Blaise would nearly burst a vein if he saw her yawn. _It's not proper_ , he'd say. _No one should see the inside of your mouth at any time._

Still holding on to whatever he can from his pureblood royalty days, that one. She can't fault him for wanting to be normal again. For his nostalgia.

She hasn't got a minute for it though.

"How long have you been awake?"

He checks his muggle watch before answering. "About three hours."

She must look funny judging by the expression on his face. He chuckles and picks up his tea. "They've been shuffling about so I reckoned might as well get up," he says nodding towards the Abernathys' flat.

Right, he's here for a mission. She'd forgotten that for a moment there. It's so strange to see anyone other than Blaise and Vince and Draco sitting at the kitchen table first thing in the morning. Her hazy brain stutters in its processing.

"You alright?" Potter asks suddenly.

"Yes, why?"

"Just looked a bit worried there." She shakes her head. "Are you having second thoughts about me being here?"

"Come on now, Potter. Don't tell me I'll have to hold your hand through this."

It's a good-natured tease. She's surprised herself by engaging in such frank behaviour with Potter since yesterday. He surprises her with his response too. "No hand holding required. I'm past that stage now," he says as if he ever needed a hand to hold while he was out doing such things as dueling You-Know-Who and saving the world before turning 18.

"Good," she replies keeping the joke running. "Have you had anything to eat?"

"I did, yeah. There was an apple in the fridge, hope that's alright."

She nods but does make a mental note to check how many apples are left. Draco would throw a fit if Potter ate the last one. He'd probably transfigure Potter into an apple and--

"Which reminds me, here." He takes something out of his pocket and puts it on the table in front of her. It's muggle money. A 100 pound note. "That's Ministry allotted, mission expenses and such. Since I'm eating with you at least sometimes, it's only fair that I give this to you."

"You don't have to--"

"I won't use it for anything else."

She takes out her wand and moves the money over to the little jar where they keep lose change for groceries, wine etc. It's not like they have trouble with money with all four of them working but sure if Potter wants to pay his share. "Cheers, Potter!"

They sit there in companionable silence for a little while. She has to start breakfast soon but she can enjoy a few more moments of peace before Blaise wakes up and starts his morning ritual of moaning and whining about being forced to awaken-- wait.

"When you said earlier, did I forget about you being here too. What were you talking about?"

Potter's face transforms from that of an engrossed reader to someone pretending to be busy reading. She can tell, she lives with someone whose preferred way of avoiding uncomfortable conversation is to pretend to read.

Without looking up from the paper, Potter answers: "Malfoy came in earlier, I think he was drunk."

Ah. "Did he talk to you?"

Another show of eyes moving across lines. "No, he uh... he was surprised to see me. He just ignored me and left."

Right. Just as she expected. "Well, don't take it too personally, Potter. Draco's incapable of making conversation before at least ten am. And drunk Draco can't string along a sentence before noon so."

"I'm not taking it personally," Potter mumbles, face still half-hidden behind the paper.

Could've fooled me, she thinks.

"Well, I better get started on breakfast," she says draining the last of her tea. "I'll never hear the end of it if Blaise doesn't have eggs in front of him the second he wakes up. He'll start ranting about how when it's his turn to make breakfast, everyone wakes up to the smell of crepes."

"Great way to wake up, to be fair," Potter adds.

"It is if the crepes actually taste like crepes."

She can hear Potter laughing behind her as she goes to put her empty cup in the sink. It's Draco's turn to do the dishes and she wants him to wash every single cup and spoon she uses.

When she turns, Potter's out of his chair as well. "Need a hand?" he offers.

 _Man after my own heart._ "If you've got the time."

"I've got surveillance spells in place, I can help."

She throws him an apron. She throws him the apron. It's the one Blaise bought Draco that first year of living together. It's got a figure on the front. A very flattering figure, let's just say. Potter puts it on without looking, the naive little thing. She has to turn around to hide her grin from him. He looks ridiculous with his Ministry issue shirt underneath that apron.

"What can I do?" he asks and isn't that the best thing to hear someone say. If only she could see any kind of future with him.

"Hash Browns? While I get started on the eggs." He nods. "Hang on, I'll get you potatoes."

They work in comfortable silence interspersed with a few questions here and there. In the dead quiet of the flat, they almost have to whisper. She watches him out the corner of her eye, sees how precisely he's peeling the potatoes. If it were Blaise or Vince, they'd have wasted half the thing in peeling.

Potter even puts a pinch of salt in the boiling water. That's a neat trick, he says. Boils water in half the time.

"Do you cook much?" she wonders aloud.

"Sometimes," he replies vaguely.

She leaves it at that and they go back to working. In her mind, she marvels at the strangeness of the situation. Harry Potter is standing beside her waiting for potatoes to boil. It's almost as if she never tried to hand him over to a mass murdering dark wizard.

"Can I ask you something?" Potter says softly while he's waiting for the pan to heat up.

"Go on."

"Isn't it strange living here with... well, with someone you went out with."

She goes to repeat the answer she's given so many times before but stops herself. "Who're you talking about?" she asks him instead.

Potter frowns down at the pan. "Malfoy?" he says. A beat. "I thought you and he were together. At Hogwarts."

"We were," she clarifies, watching Potter's face very closely. His head's tilted to the side like a crup concentrating on something. Caught, she thinks. "I just wanted to make sure that's who you meant. Blaise and I dated briefly as well."

"Oh." She didn't know he was capable of masking his emotions. Gryffindors are famously bad at it. Yet Potter's doing something right.

"To answer your question - no, it isn't awkward. We were just children then trying to figure things out." He nods. "Lots of things," she adds deliberately.

His hands stop mid-air. "Like?"

She bites down on a smile. "Like the fact that two of us prefer our own gender."

The pan sizzles as the oil overheats. The plate in Potter's hand is heavy; he puts it down with a trembling hand.

"Blaise has a girlfriend," she says.

Potter can't hide behind the newspaper now, can't hide the way the breath leaves his body so roughly. Can't hide how he sags forward. She smiles down at the scrambled eggs she's just finished making.

***

Blaise gives her a strange look when he enters the kitchen followed closely by Vince. She ignores it.

Breakfast is usually a quiet time since most of them are still waking up. Today, she feels energised enough to actually talk. It's a pity neither Blaise nor Vince open their mouths. Potter's the only one gracious enough to try to have a conversation. However, he senses the tension quickly enough and excuses himself.

"I need to report at the Ministry," he mumbles and slinks away. The moment the front door closes behind him, it's like air has returned to the flat. Blaise's fork hits the ceramic plate. She sighs.

"Aren't you chummy with Potter..." he remarks.

She looks at Vince and finds him staring intently at his breakfast. He's on Blaise's side then.

"Aren't you being a little bit rude?" she counters.

"I agreed to letting him stay here for his mission not to being his new best mate."

"Is that what you think being best mates is? Having a polite conversation with someone in the same room?"

"No, but laughing and joking and cooking breakfast with someone you loathed for a decade might be it though. Or have you forgotten that you wanted him dead?"

Vince's fierce chewing stops.

She takes a deep breath and stands up.

Blaise's hand wraps around her wrist. "Pans..."

"Let go."

He does. She leaves her dishes in the sink and walks out of the kitchen.

In her room, she stands in front of the wardrobe trying to find something that's loose enough to feel weightless but fitted enough to qualify as professional. She doesn't like that she's gained weight, that she doesn't have a non-existent waist like she used to have as a teenager.

Erika keeps telling her it's how the body works but it doesn't always help. She took it for granted is the thing, she thought she would always be able to eat anything and everything and fit into a size small.

It's metabolism, Dr. Mac had said. Your body changes gears once you hit your twenties. It's likely nothing you're doing differently. Or perhaps the continuous sitting at your job has made a difference. Either way, it's how bodies work.

She sighs and picks out the one pair of trousers that still fits her at the waist. She could expand the others but just the thought of casting the spell stops her. It'd be like admitting she can't fit into the clothes she wore for years.

Ah, shite. She hates getting dressed.

There's a knock on her door just as she buttons up the trousers. It's Blaise, she can tell.

She picks up her work bag and goes to the door. Blaise's hand is mid-air, ready to knock again. She ducks under it. "I've got to go or I'll be late."

He rushes after her. "I'm sorry, Pans. I was just--I wasn't thinking."

"Maybe you should start, Blaise."

And then she's gone.

***

He wakes up with a start. Sits up in bed and looks around. Head starts throbbing almost instantly.

The room is too bright, it's hurting his eyes. He forgot to close the curtains and now the sunlight is assaulting him. "Aaarrgh!" he yells like a true intellectual and turns to lie on his front so he can bury his head under the pillow.

Then begins the introspection - why am I so completely hungover? What year is this? Where am I?

He doesn't always like the answers to these questions.

When he's established that he's in his flat and the war's over, he feels confident enough to move the pillow from his head. He'd perform the only bit of wandless magic he's capable of - shutting the curtains - if he was confident that he won't vomit at the the first sign of the concentration needed to cast wandless.

He notices something beside his leg and peers down curiously to find Abraxas snoring at the foot of the bed. Of course, he is.

There's a hangover potion on his bedside table. _Bless whoever left that there!_ Without a second's delay, he downs it and lays back down and locks his body to let the potion work its magic. It's best if you stay still and hum through the massive headache that lasts all of three seconds but feels like a lifetime.

When it's done, he opens his eyes and breathes out. The sunlight no longer feels like a curse on his skin. For a moment, he wonders how wretched vampires would feel when hungover in the morning. Would they feel worse than he felt just a moment ago?

He allows the self-pity for another minute or two and then jumps out of bed ready to start the day. Well, whatever's left of it. The house is quiet so he must be alone. He looks down at Abraxas with a smile on his face but the fat bastard's still snoring and he gets no response.

The hangover potion has done its part he thinks as he stands under the warm stream of water. The fact that he can actually stand proves this. He's always liked showering in barely tolerable, nearly boiling water. It used to be a preference as a child when mother would always say he was too hot blooded to bathe with cold water. Then, it became a habit and through the war, a necessity. He'd rub himself raw under boiling water hoping it would make him feel clean when nothing else would.

Ah, depressing thoughts have returned.

He finishes up in the shower and pats himself dry. With his forearm, he clears the fogged up mirror so he can look at himself. Flushed skin, bright eyes, no longer looking two steps away from death. He looks his fill, takes in the wet hair and the smooth skin as steam blurs the reflection once again. He used to stand like this in front of the mirror for hours daring himself to look at the weak boy staring back. It was the only place he'd let the weakness show or they'd have eaten him alive.

A sudden bang from somewhere makes him jump. He won't admit to the sound that just came out of his mouth. He waits a moment, a heart stopping moment, and listens. There it is again. With a pounding heart, he wraps the towel around his waist and inches the door open. The rush of air against his shower heated skin makes a shiver run down his spine but he hasn't got the time to dress.

His neck leans out slowly scanning the hallway to his left and then to his right. He hopes no one can see his head protruding from the wall - that would put a damper on his plans to stealthily advance on the intruder. When he sees no one in the hall, he tiptoes out and down towards the rooms. Greg's is empty, so are Blaise's and Pansy's. He looks in his room the last and it's empty too except for Abraxas who has one of his episodes when he sees Draco and lunges for the towel covering his modesty. Draco steps back to get away from him and almost brains himself.

Silently cursing the fat bastard, Draco turns to go check the kitchen and comes face to face with Harry Potter. And freezes.

Potter's no better, he's doing a brilliant impression of someone who's just taken a bludger to the head. He looks the same as ever: unruly and messy and stupidly overconfident. And the bloody eyes everyone keeps gushing over.

Belatedly, Draco realises how under-dressed he is.

He spins around and hides himself in his wardrobe. Any shirt will do! He takes the first one off the hanger and pulls it on. He hesitates a moment after the shirt's buttoned, lingers behind the cover of the wardrobe door. Potter doesn't have the sense to leave, he thinks. Probably doesn't have any concept of privacy at all. He's likely still standing there like an idiot.

Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes and steps out from behind the wardrobe. Potter's still here, no surprise. He is, however, standing with his back to Draco. And in a moment of insanity, Draco's gaze slowly assesses said back. It looks like a strong back - broad shoulders, lean waist. Those ruddy hair that look so soft at the back of his neck.

Potter looks over his shoulder and catches his eye. A cough gets stuck in Draco's throat but he manages to not look like a complete idiot by snapping at Potter. "Ever heard of knocking, Potter?"

The Boy Wonder turns around and says something about hearing a noise but Draco can't focus on his words. How can he when Potter's stood there with that stupid naked-bloke apron tied over his auror's robes? He doesn't know whether to laugh or to run away and never come back.

That's a stupid apron, he's always said it but on Potter... Draco's eyes linger on Potter's shoulders, on the strong sinewy forearms and the rough hands. He wonders if Potter's body looks the same as the one on the apron. If being an Auror has made him--

He startles when Potter takes a step toward him. "Um, Malfoy?"

Draco shakes his head and looks away from the apron. _Stupid bloody thing!_

"Why're you wearing an apron?" he barks in a voice that makes Potter's eyebrows disappear into his hair. He may have sounded a bit angry there but he watches with immense satisfaction as Potter's face burns with embarrassment and how he rips the apron off in a quick movement. "I was in the kitchen," he mumbles with a hand going to the back of his neck.

Ah, the nervous tell. He's been Potter-watching since he was eleven. Some things never change, it seems.

"Do you always wear an apron when you're commandeering people's kitchens for shady Ministry business?" he says wondering if Potter still does that thing where his ears turn the colour of beets when he's embarrassed. Does he still get enraged and defensive at the littlest things.

"I was making lunch," Potter says with a steely edge to his voice that makes Draco's skin prickle. He won't spend too much time on analyzing that.

"Lunch?"

"The meal between breakfast and dinner," Potter replies patronisingly.

There's so much there that Draco can and should curse at but he ends up saying, "Oh, is that what lunch is?"

Potter's face splits into a smile. How curious, Draco thinks. All those years at Hogwarts and he never saw this smile on Potter's face, this easy smile. This 'no megalomaniacs are trying to kill me' smile. He hasn't seen this smile in the hundreds of photos of Potter that the _Prophet_ publishes. Not once has Potter had this smile on his face in those photos. _Still, can't dwell on it._ "I thought this was a crucial Ministry operation. It can't be that crucial seeing as how you're walking around wearing an apron cooking lunch."

Ah, there it is: the defensiveness. The clenched jaw, the hard eyes, the squared shoulders. All traces of the smile gone.

"I need to get back," he mutters under his breath and turns on his heel.

"Still can't take a joke, can you?" Draco finds himself asking. He doesn't know why he does but if Pansy were here she'd tell him he's still a child and can't let things go where Potter's concerned. She'd be wrong, of course.

Potter turns around with all the seriousness of an auror. "You need to be a lot funnier for _that_ to pass as a joke."

He wants to sneer, wants to grab the closest heavy object and hurl it at Potter's face and scar the other side of his forehead but. But. He takes a page out of Potter's book. His lips upturn the slightest bit on one side. He watches as Potter's whole countenance changes, how his chin that was stubbornly raised relaxes, how the challenge of his magic that engulfed the air recedes, how his gaze mellows instantly and Draco doesn't feel like a suspect being questioned anymore. Is this what it feels like to be in the Chosen One's good graces?

"What were you cooking?" he asks breaking the silence.

Potter imperceptibly starts at his voice like he was miles away. "Curry and rice," he answers quietly playing with the apron in his hand.

Draco sniffs, nods. He likes curry. It's one of the muggle things he wouldn't be able to live without actually if he had to go back to all things pureblood. Not that that day is coming any time soon. Regardless, it's impressive that Potter is cooking a curry. He must be confident in his skill to undertake this task or he'll make a shit curry.

"Do you even know what's on the front of that apron?" he says and leaves the room and Potter to scramble to look at the apron he's been wearing. Behind him, he hears a gasp followed by a muffled sound and some muttering and grins to himself.

***

In the kitchen, he notices that Potter has almost taken over the little dining table they'd bought from a second hand shop. Parchments and quills and strange little gadgets are strewn across the table top and Potter's heavy Ministry-issue coat hangs from the back of a chair. Draco looks at these things from afar not interested in being accused of spying or illegal potion smuggling himself. As he waits for the kettle to boil, he wonders how he'd walked in here this morning and not noticed Potter's mess or Potter himself. He really must've been in some state.

Potter enters the kitchen with a face as red as a tomato. Draco grins at him to which Potter blushes harder and makes a show of throwing the apron into the cupboard Pansy must've shown him at some point. "I didn't know that was on there," he says sounding very embarrassed. "Pansy gave it to me."

"And you took it without even looking? Some auror you are!" Draco's saying before he can stop himself. The playful air turns antagonistic in seconds. Draco turns to his tea and Potter wordlessly walks over to his table and starts fiddling with one of the gadgets that seems to be spitting out pieces of parchment every few moments. Draco is not at all interested in those gadgets or those parchments. Not one bit.

***

"You have a new wand?"

He turns around to see Malfoy reaching for the mahogany wand Harry forgot to pick up from the table in his hurry.

"Don't touch that."

Malfoy looks up with a sneer sitting neatly on his face. Harry would've thought the urgency and seriousness in his voice would make Malfoy listen for once. No such luck.

"I think I can handle a wand, Potter," he says reaching forward as if Harry never spoke.

"Sure but don't say I didn't warn you when you end up in a full body bind on the floor."

Malfoy doesn't look convinced. His fingers ghost over the wand, almost touching but not quite.

Now that he's given a warning, Harry leans back against the table and crosses his arms. It's on Malfoy if he wants to do something stupid. "It's a decoy, Ministry issued," Harry explains. "Anyone but me touches it, they end up in a bind. Petrified."

"...don't leave this lying around then." Malfoy retreats from the table still looking dubiously at the wand. Harry can't help but snort at the displeasure on his face. He doesn't tell Malfoy that a big part of ending up in that bind is intent - intent to harm the auror that the wand has been issued to. Malfoy doesn't need to know that.

***

She has just gotten back from work and would like two minutes of peace and silence before dinner but apparently that is too much to ask. He's waiting for her when she makes it to her room.

It's been a bloody long day full of working on computers and researching what turned out to be dead ends. She got in a fight with Erika over something so completely trivial it's not even funny. And to top it all off, it's Blaise's turn to cook tonight. The smell coming from the kitchen hit her in the face before she even opened the front door and she'd just about stopped herself from turning around and getting takeaway. Potter was kind enough to just smile and let her be when he saw her tired face.

Draco isn't that kind. He's sitting on her bed looking like a disgruntled kneazle. "I've been waiting for you for hours!" he announces with a healthy helping of irritation.

She crosses the threshold and walks into the room. No peace even here, she thinks. "Excuse me for not abandoning work to come running to you."

"If anyone gets to be snarky right now, it's me."

She sighs, puts down her work bag and toes off her shoes before turning around to face him. He must see the exhaustion in her eyes for he deflates. He only does that when he's wound himself up for a good whine and has to give it up.

"Is this lunacy of letting Potter use our kitchen as some sort of mission control room to continue?"

"Yes," she sighs.

"For how long?"

"As long as he needs to be here. He said it'd take a week or two at most."

"A week or two," he repeats, nodding to himself. "And you three are still in agreement about this?"

She looks at him carefully, wondering if Blaise has changed his mind by any chance and gone to Draco. But no, if Draco knew that, he wouldn't be sitting here asking her this. He'd be halfway through a loud, immature flat vote in the middle of the kitchen.

"Yes," she replies confidently.

He nods again. "And I suppose you expect me to eat at the same table as him?"

She bites down on a smile.

***

Potter has chosen to sit directly across from Draco.

It's dead silent. It's tense. Everyone's sitting stiffly, bodies locked in place.

Good, he thinks. He could break this tension with one word but he doesn't because this is what they deserve for what they've done to him. And Potter deserves this for being here.

He smiles to himself and continues to eat his dinner in silence.

It's Pansy who ruins it all in the end as he has come to expect of her. She looks him right in the eye and asks, "Recovered from your drinking, have you?"

He's speaking before he even realises. "I didn't know you cared, Pansy." Bloody Pansy and her knowing ways. She knows he can't not answer even if he is mad at her.

"I don't," she answers casually. "Just need you to clarify something."

It's a trap but he's utterly incapable of shutting the fuck up. Every single person here knows this. "What's that?" he grinds out.

"Eggsy at the shops said he saw you stumbling home this morning."

 _Bloody Eggsy_. "And?"

"And he mentioned that you looked quite rough..."

"Will you be approaching a point any time soon?"

"Rough enough that you needed a hundred and three year old woman to guide you down the street," she announces triumphantly. 

Silence. He stares her down but she doesn't blink. He doesn't want to make this worse so he bites down on the curse sitting at the tip of his tongue.

She continues. "That's Myrtle, by the way, who helped you home. Did I mention she's a hundred and three?"

"You did."

"So, how was it? Hitting rock bottom, I mean. Being led down the road by an old lady of--"

"You know what, Pansy? I'll tell you how it was. It was nice having someone support me when I needed it. You don't remember what that's like, do you?"

Her eyes twinkle under the low light of the bulb. She's not going to poke him anymore.

They eat in silence for a while, no one brave enough to say anything. That is until Blaise bursts out laughing. "I just---oh Salazar, the image I have in my head. Draco and old Myrtle hobbling down the street arm in arm---pfft!"

"Unless you want to be cleaning blood off your clothes till morning, I'd advice you to shut up." 

He does but that doesn't stop the low sniggering that continues all the way through dinner. Even Potter's grinning behind his wine glass.

He's two seconds away from AKing the lot of them.

*** 

She's reading the book Erika's been hounding her about when Draco strides into her room without any warning. She looks up from behind the book and sees him pacing from wall to wall. She goes back to her book.

The pacing becomes marching. He's clearly irritated. And he's not going to let her read so she might as well ask him.

"I don't like him being here," he replies shortly.

Sighing, she puts down the book. Erika will have to wait another day to rant about the ending.

He's watching her with murderous eyes. It would be intimidating if that wasn't his resting face and she hadn't been seeing it for more than a decade. "Is that so?" she asks.

As expected, he scowls. "Yes, of course!" His hand flies up to card through his hair, a sure sign of anxiety. "He's always around. Always there--what's wrong with your face?"

"It's called a smile, Draco. Try it sometime."

"Don't get short with me, Pansy. I'm serious here." 

She waits a moment, watches him squirm. "Tell this to someone who wasn't there, darling." She'd reach out and pet his cheek if she thought him incapable of biting her hand. "I know you spent your seminal years trying to get Potter's attention. You can't pretend you suddenly don't like it."

He stutters. And Draco hardly ever stutters. Well, unless he's faced with a naked man. Then he usually forgets how to form words. That's pureblood breeding to blame, all those years of prudishness hammered into them.

When all he does is stand there and blink like a broken machine, she thinks she's done a brilliant job. She deserves an extra helping of cheesecake for that. "I'm going to get myself some cheesecake. You coming?"

He's foaming at the mouth. She thinks it's wise to leave him be.

***

He hears someone coming toward the kitchen, footsteps getting closer and closer. He twists in his seat to check his reflection in the window - nothing on his face, hair as tamed as they can be. He jerks around and just about manages to look engrossed in his mountain of parchment when someone enters.

"Just me, Potter," Pansy says as she walks to the fridge.

Harry wants to ask her what that means. "Trouble sleeping?" he asks instead.

She walks over to the table he has commandeered with a cake and two forks in hand. "No, I just really wanted cheesecake," she answers and hands him a fork without asking if he'd like some.

"So, how goes the spying?" she asks after a few minutes of silence. He's got his mouth full and gestures for her to wait a second. She smirks and says, "Look how hard at work the Ministry is!"

"I was hard at work before you showed up with cake," he insists. 

"Sure, Potter. I'm sure you've been _very hard_ at work all day."

He gets the same feeling as when Hermione is gearing up to ask an overwhelming number of questions in order to figure something out. The difference is Slytherins don't waste time on leading questions. In fact, he's noticed that they don't waste time on questions at all. It's mostly innuendos and insults.

He'd rather not sit here and engage in an innuendo challenge with Pansy Parkinson so he clears his throat and looks away. "I've got some very questionable spells being cast next door. Will have to see what the Curse Breakers think of that."

"Right. Progress, then?"

"Progress," he agrees.

This is nice, he finds himself thinking as they chip away at the cake in a quiet house where the only sound is their conversation. It's like this morning. It's nice.

Pansy Parkinson is nice.

There's something he never thought he'd say. Well, he still hasn't said it. Merlin knows how she'll react if he says it aloud. Probably will threaten to relocate his bollocks. Probably threaten to hex him if he ever says it in front of anyone else. He chuckles at the mental image that brings.

"Daydreaming, Potter?"

"Just thinking about something."

"Must be nice, whatever you're thinking. Every time I try to daydream, I remember work and then inevitably something I forgot to do. It's bloody stressful working with muggles."

"What is work?"

"Research," she replies. "Lots of it. I work in a lab most days, collecting information. It's psychological research."

He remembers Luna telling him on a pub night last year that the Slytherins had moved in together and some of them were working with muggles. They'd all been sceptical obviously, had questioned why purebloods would ever want to work with muggles. Harry himself had brought this information to Kingsley and realised that the Ministry was already aware.

"It is part of their pardons, Harry," he'd said. "They have to report any significant events to the Ministry. They are being watched."

He hadn't been convinced. He'd gone to Hermione and they'd both said how puzzled they were that the likes of Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini had taken up work with muggles. Willingly. Neither of them said anything about Draco Malfoy's chosen profession.

Pansy's voice cuts right through his thoughts. "Are you wondering why we would ever work with muggles?"

He considers lying but the curiosity wins. He nods.

She doesn't look offended. To be fair, given their history she can't blame him for wondering.

"It was Draco's idea." Somehow, he isn't surprised. She continues, "In the beginning, it was because our family vaults were frozen during the trials and we weren't allowed to sell anything in exchange for money. The measly allowance the Ministry had us on was grossly insufficient. The only way to live was to work but no one would employ us. I'm told it was a Ministry directive."

Her eyes are sharp as she watches him. There isn't accusation in them but there is a challenge. Does he dare challenge her on this? Does he dare say that what they did or wanted to do was much worse than anything the Ministry ever did to them.

"It's standard practice while a trial is ongoing," he says. "Given the gravity of the charges against you and your families, the Ministry would have had to be rigorous." A tense silence envelopes them. Harry takes a breath and says, "I'm surprised Malfoy didn't end up imprisoned before his trial."

There, now he's said it. The one thing he has wanted to say for years but to someone who wouldn't make it into some sort of campaign slogan or newspaper headline. Or someone who'll agree with him. It lingers between them, folding and unfolding as the seconds pass.

"You sound convinced that he should have," she says at last. "But if that is so, then I wonder why you would speak for him in front of the Wizengamot." She says she wonders but everything about her screams that she knows why.

He shrugs. "I am not saying he should or shouldn't have. I'm saying I find it unusual that he and his mum never saw the inside of a cell while Lucius was rotting away in Azkaban."

She flinches at the name. He watches as fear crosses her face for the briefest moment. Watches as she seems to be transported to a time and place where Azkaban was a real possibility for her and her family. When she recovers, she looks at him like she's looking inside of him.

"He was under house arrest," she says finally.

Harry has always had his doubts about this. For some reason, he has always been sure that Malfoy wouldn't have stayed in that place after the war if he had a choice. But all records on the Malfoys have been sealed with no access to anyone. Not even Harry Potter. And he has always wondered why. 

He nods but doesn't say anything. He wants to hear what she wants to say.

"We used to go to the Manor to see him. He was miserable there. Imprisoned in the one place he wanted to never see again. I think someone at the Ministry really wanted to see him suffer."

There's that challenge again. _Contradict me if you dare, Potter._

"Azkaban is the scariest place in all of England."

"Not to him."

He remembers the things he saw through Voldemort's eyes. Some of the things he recounted at Malfoy's trial.

"I know you saw some things that were done to him. Others that you didn't see and that he doesn't share keep him up at nights. Being imprisoned in that Manor was torture to him. Living where He lived, where He tortured and killed."

He could say something about choices and following the wrong people. He could say something about being blind with power. Looking down on others. Thinking others deserve to die.

He doesn't.

Because he can tell the people in this house no longer think of themselves as some superior race than the one they have willingly surrounded themselves with.

And because of what Malfoy said to him all those years ago after the trial. _Are you sure you haven't made a terrible mistake?_

She speaks again, interrupting his inner monologue. "I know we were snobby little shits. Right up until the end, some of us." She means herself and that time she wanted everyone to hold him down and deliver him to Voldemort. "Because that's what we'd been told all our lives. _You are better than the rest. Richer and purer and better. And one day, it will only be us and the rest who are like us. The filth will be eliminated._ That's word-for-word what Lucius once said. In a toast. We were nine or ten, I believe."

"Some upbringing."

She gives him a look that tells him she knows exactly what he was doing when he was nine or ten. There is a hint of pity there but mostly just acknowledgment.

"It was," she says with a heavy sigh. "Nothing ensures obedience like telling an ambitious snobby child that he is better than everyone else. That one day, if he continues to be good and do the things that are expected of him, he will be one of the most powerful wizards left. Pity they never told us what these things were that they expected us to do."

"Didn't they?" he asks sounding skeptical even to his own ears. "It's not like Voldemort and his legacy was ever a secret."

"It wasn't but we thought it was cleaning the filth--" She stops abruptly. Harry watches her as she puts down her fork and shakes her head. Has she realised she's just called his parents and Sirius and Fred and countless others filth. Here eyes jump from the table to meet his and then away. "We were too busy hating you and calling people names to let it ever sink in. To realise what we were saying. To realise that thinking muggles shouldn't go to Hogwarts isn't the same as torturing and killing muggles."

A few years ago, he'd have laughed in her face. Told her none of them were naive at age eleven, or too innocent to not understand what was being proposed and planned by their own parents. Now, he sits silently and listens.

"Hearing something for years and actually seeing it happen are vastly different, you see. The idea of mudbloods," she sniffs and continues, "being killed off was appealing to us. We would sit around and talk shit about Granger and her muggle parents. The Weasleys. Never had any qualms about imagining them being hurt in the war."

At least she's not shying away from it.

"The first time you hear the name of someone you know who has been captured and tortured to death is... I was about to say it's like say being hit by AK but no, it isn't. Because you're still alive and they're dead. That first time is... the moment you realise you are completely helpless. You have no choice, you've already made your choices and no matter what you say or do now, it doesn't matter."

He remembers feeling like that many times in the early years. Remembers feeling like it constantly after Sirius was gone. After Dumbledore was. He feels sick to his stomach. Pushes the cake away.

She gets out of her chair to put the cake back in the fridge. He waits silently to see if she's said all she wanted to. If she'll leave him with his thoughts for the rest of the night.

She comes back. "Nothing matters. There's a next time and a next. Someone you used to sit next to in Charms has been thrown to Greyback. Someone you hexed once for not giving you their hairclip that you liked has been Crucio'd to death. And you know you'll be next if you so much as hint at being disobedient. We realised very soon how out of depth we were. Blaise and I would hide in the cellar so we didn't have to see the Carrows. We knew them, you see, from before. They'd recognise us, maybe call us forward. Make us curse someone."

He remembers when cursing someone in the corridor was a hobby for the Slytherins. When pelting snowballs at little children was a leisurely activity. Somehow, he can't imagine this Pansy hexing someone because they are muggleborn.

"I wanted to give you to Him so it would stop." Her voice is so low he can barely hear her. "So he'd get what he wanted and spare us. I was so out of my mind with fear that the thought of a world controlled by him was preferable to what was happening around us."

His finger idly traces a pattern on the table. "You really thought he'd stop once he'd killed me?"

She shrugs. "I thought he wouldn't care about much more after that. Once he'd made sure he was immortal, that he would somehow feel content enough to leave it be." A humourless laugh. "Too bloody naive for a seventeen-year old!"

"A child still," he points out.

"You were a child too," she replies hotly. Has Pansy Parkinson just praised him and made it sound like an accusation all in one sentence.

"I was," he agrees.

"You were," she repeats.

He doesn't know what to say now. He knew most of this already, always had suspected that the Slytherins committed to something they didn't fully understand. Not unlike him in some ways but that's another story. He's always known that the one person who's seen the most out of them has been the most troubled as well. He remembers walking into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom that day and seeing Malfoy, proud arrogant Malfoy, crying in the mirror. Weeping. Trembling. Lost. Helpless.

He remembers Malfoy lowering his wand and refusing to kill Dumbledore.

He remembers Malfoy refusing to identify him when the recognition that shone in his eyes was unmistakable.

That he would fall so far from grace so as to weep in front of Myrtle, that he would lower his wand and not complete the mission he'd been assigned by the man who would likely kill his parents and him if he failed, that he would look Harry in the eye - know without a doubt it was him - and not personally hand him over to Voldemort has weighed on his mind for four years. 

And so has the fact that Malfoy let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Death Eaters who hurt and killed children. Colin. Fred.

He has wondered what happened to Malfoy after Harry, Hermione and Ron escaped from the Manor that day. How was he punished? He must've been.

Pansy breaks the silence with a strange question. "Do you remember that hippogriff that hurt Draco? Hagrid's hippogriff?"

"Buckbeak."

"Yes, that was it. Draco used to be heavily sedated sometimes when we came to visit during the trials. Some of it was healers and some of it was bad potions he was brewing in the cellar with whatever ingredients he could find. He said it helped him forget. One time when--"

"Forget what?"

She doesn't look too happy about being interrupted. Well, she also hasn't left anything unsaid until now. Clearly, she wanted him to ask.

"Bellatrix."

He feels his hand clenching into a fist. Pansy's eyes fly to it. He takes a deep breath and taps his fingers on the table.

"She was the one who punished him when he didn't finish his assignment. And when he lost that duel to you. She wanted to be a good aunty, teach him how to be strong. She'd _Crucio_ him and watch. Make him torture muggles with a wand digging into his neck. You know, how a loving aunt might."

It's so bloody nonchalant how she says that last part, it makes him scoff. He knows all about loving aunts, after all.

"He confessed to me once that he wished she'd do it. That she'd blast his head off."

It's what Harry would've done if someone had him at wand point and told him to torture someone. He'd have told them to get on with it. But the idea of Draco Malfoy, the same coward who cornered Chang to get Harry caught, who targeted Neville all those years, who got so close to poisoning Dumbledore... giving up on his sense of self-preservation seems unfathomable.

"But Bellatrix wasn't stupid enough to waste a perfectly good pawn," Pansy's saying. "She knew her sister would never forgive her for doing that. She also knew there was no way Narcissa Malfoy would stay loyal if anything happened to Draco. So Bellatrix changed tactics - she pointed the wand at Narcissa. And then Draco danced to her tune without a word."

They're both quiet for some time after that. Pansy had gotten up and put on the kettle earlier. It whistles, startling both of them. She comes back with a cup for herself and for him. He takes it with a smile. More silence. Something niggling at the back of his mind. "What were you saying about Buckbeak earlier?"

"Oh, yes. Draco was high on his potions as usual and while we were visiting him, he said he really regretted getting that chicken killed. Apparently, that was the death of his innocence."

"Right." His own voice sounds far away to him. Like it's coming from underwater. Maybe that's the rush of blood in his ears. 

"He'd worked that out somehow. I don't understand it but maybe you do," she says pointedly. He looks up from his hands to see her getting up to leave. "Goodnight, Potter."

"Night," he mumbles back.

***

Draco has brought pastries from that little French bakery near his work. He doesn't often because otherwise they'd lose their charm, he says. Pansy couldn't care less about any of it, she's interested in getting her Pineapple flavoured pastry and makes gimme gestures with both her hands because she's not above begging.

Blaise has already gotten his weird strawberry and orange pastry, Greg's stuffing his face with his favourite chocolate croissant and even Potter's received some sort of pastry. She's the last one. Draco's got a smirk on his face as he puts a croissant in front of her. A plain croissant.

"That's for using the word seminal yesterday when you could've said formative," he says sounding over pleased with himself.

She almost reaches for her teacup and tosses it at his smug face. No, can't do that. Not with an auror present in the room. Wait. An auror. _Potter._

"Interesting how that's the part you object to," she tells him with a grin because it's too easy to rile him up. It's always been too easy to tease him where Potter's concerned. "You know, out of all of it. Not the part about craving and loving the attention of Po--"

"Shut your mouth, you cow!" Draco shouts and suddenly his hand's covering her mouth.

Potter looks between her and Draco with narrowed eyes. He's got pastry flakes stuck in his light stubble and he looks like a curious squirrel with its cheeks bulging. She smiles under Draco's hand.

***

Not wanting a repeat of last night's dinner, Pansy plans on starting a conversation tonight. She's determined to have some sort of a civil dinner and not a repeat of that tense affair of last night.

As soon as everyone is settled with their plates, she turns to Potter and asks him about his current living arrangements after making a comment about how nice it is to be sharing a flat with her best friends.

"So, do you live on your own then?" she asks after Potter tells them he's staying at the house his godfather left him, the old Black family house. Draco had tensed at the mention of the place but otherwise has shown no reaction.

Potter looks up from his dinner and nods. "For now, yeah. After Ron moved out, I haven't found anyone else."

"Are you looking for a roommate then?"

He shrugs. "Not really looking, no. It's uh, complicated, you know..."

"With the whole Harry Potter thing, you mean?" Blaise intercepts in a particularly whiny voice. 

Potter's utterly serious in his response: "No, I mean with my snoring problem."

Draco snorts the second the words are out of Potter's mouth but tries to cover it up. He does a poor job of it and soon enough, everyone except for Blaise is laughing.

Once they've settled down, Pansy broaches the subject again despite the evil eye Draco's currently giving her. "It must be strange being in that house on your own. It's massive, isn't it?"

"It is, yeah. Too big for just one person, definitely."

This may sound like an inquisition but she'll be damned if she lets this turn into another awkward meal. After an appropriate pause, she asks Potter: "Do you plan on moving out of there then?"

"Maybe, some day. For now, Kreacher is there to keep me company."

"That's the Black house-elf, right?"

"Yeah. He's really old now though so I try not to give him much work to do. He doesn't like that, obviously."

"No, I don't imagine he would. Will you get a new elf then? When he's, y'know..."

"Don't think I will, actually. I can cook for myself but it's tedious to do it for just one person. And most of the time, I spend hours on one meal."

"Hours? What do you cook?"

"Oh, bit of this bit of that. I like making Indian. Takes hours though, and I don't always have the energy after work."

Blaise seems interested in the conversation suddenly now that it's about food. And he fancies himself the cook of the flat. "Cooking is not that difficult. Just do what I do."

Potter turns to Blaise with a curious look. "What's that, use too much salt and call it seasoning?"

The hush that falls over the room is deafening. She almost draws blood with how hard she's biting down on the inside of her cheek. Draco looks like he's in a similar predicament.

Before Blaise can hex him, Potter smiles and says: "I'm just joking. This chicken is delicious."

"Yes well, I'd like to see you try, Potter. Making all these snide comments, maybe you should cook tomorrow."

"I don't mind."

And then Blaise sits through the rest of dinner looking like a kicked crup.

***

 

Potter's always in the way. He goes to eat, Potter's there. He comes home from work, Potter's there. He's going to the bathroom, Potter's right there. Staring with his eyes.

It really is such an inconvenience. 

***  
Curry. He has made curry.

Draco had mocked him that day he'd made curry and rice for lunch because it had tasted nothing like the takeaway curry Draco's used to. It hadn't even been particularly good. Potter had mumbled something about not finding any spices in the cupboards. Draco had dismissed it as a lame excuse to cover up his incompetence.

Then this afternoon, Potter had disappeared. Pansy said something about Potter going to his house to bring back cooking things he needed. He had returned with utensils Draco's never seen before. Spices he's never heard of.

"I need the kitchen," Potter had announced and chased them all out. This was three hours ago. Enticing smells and interesting noises came out of the kitchen in those three hours. What sounded like a kettle whistle. Four times.

Now, they're at the dinner table and there are two bowls full of hot steaming curry that even looks different than that miserable lunch curry. There's rice. There's yogurt. And Potter's smiling like a proud parent. "Dig in," he says and everyone moves at once. Not Draco, he looks at Potter trying to catch him in a lie. He can't have made food that looks and smells like this. He's surely ordered the food in and is trying to pass it off as his.

A very inappropriate sound from Pansy steals his attention away. She looks like she's just downed a vial of Malik's  _Euphoria Elixir_. Greg doesn't seem to be breathing between bites and even Blaise is quietly enjoying his food which he would never if he thought he stood a chance to beat Potter at this.

It makes Draco even more curious. Even more intent to prove that Potter's fooling them with takeaway. He reaches for the curry and spoons himself a portion. Pansy passes him the rice without a word. He can feel eyes on him as he mixes the curry and rice on his plate. Can feel Potter watching him across the table. Can feel eyes tracking his hand as he lifts the spoon to his mouth and tastes.

Spicy but not uncomfortably hot. Lingering flavours. An aftertaste that isn't just heat. Tongue tingling with spice but craving more.

His eyes meet Potter's and get stuck. He knows Potter cooked this. Doesn't know how but he knows he did. He licks his lips, swallows. Potter nods and digs into his own dinner.

Pansy's foot lands on Draco's under the table, she's smirking but he doesn't respond at all. It'll only give her reason to tease further.

***

Draco's eyes are wider than anyone's eyes could possibly be. Greg is having a coughing fit. And Blaise has frozen in place like a stunned animal.

It's up to her to diffuse this situation. With a delicacy her mother would be proud of, she puts the fork down and wipes at her mouth with the napkin. A sudden flashback - table etiquette lessons at age five. _The napkin should go on your lap, splayed gently. It's not meant to be used, merely there as an ornament, if you will._

Shaking her head to get out of that miserable reality, she turns to Potter. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

Potter finishes chewing before he answers as if this isn't the most outrageous thing he's ever said. He doesn't even look bothered about it.

Pansy's forced to reconsider Draco's vehement insistence that the Boy Wonder really has lost his marbles. That perhaps he's fought one too many duels. Or perhaps the Dark Lord did manage to do lasting damage to Potter after all - eviscerated whatever little brain matter he had to begin with.

"Tom Riddle was at that orphanage before Dumbledore brought him to Hogwarts."

And there it is again, that name. Said so nonchalantly by Potter. It's almost amazing how much he doesn't care. How much he doesn't stumble on that name. How much he doesn't hesitate over it. Stutter it out.

While she's admiring his utter lack of care, Draco's recovered somewhat from his saucer sized eyes. "Why do you insist on calling him that?" he snaps. He doesn't mince his words, lips quivering with anger.

"Calling him what? His name?" Potter counters.

Any restraint Draco had - which wasn't much, it never is - vanishes instantly. His jaw clenches, it looks painful. And that sneer, that Malfoy sneer that used to sit across his mouth all those years is back. "If this is a lesson in Gryffindor chivalry, spare me," he bites out.

This is fascinating. She'd try to mediate if it wasn't so bloody fascinating to watch Draco and Potter do this little angry dance. As such, she holds her tongue and watches as Potter's brow furrows. How his mouth tightens minutely. How he frowns at Draco. "This isn't a lesson. I'm just saying that's his name. Not saying it and calling him some made up bullshit he came up with only gives him more power than he deserves. He was Tom Riddle, not some Dark Lord or summat."

_Isn't that utter damnation from the Saviour himself._

The silence after that spirited soliloquy is deafening. He has a point, she wants to say, but the fear and the terror of sixth year can't be undone by some words. The people around this table, other than Potter apparently, carry that terror within them as a constant reminder of past mistakes. _These words only belong to the ones on the right side of the war._

"What a conversation for dinner!" she says trying to lighten the mood a little. No one will be able to eat now that His name has been mentioned but it's worth the effort, especially to ease the discomfort rolling off of Greg and Blaise in overwhelming waves.

Meanwhile, Draco and Potter seem to be caught up in a staring contest across the table.

And if that isn't her cue to leave, she doesn't know what is.

On her way to the kitchen, she stops and watches them for a moment - still engrossed in some silent duel no one else is privy to.

***

"That was good curry."

Potter puts the last dried plate in the cupboard and turns to face Draco with a smug grin on his face. "I know."

"Has anyone ever told you what an arrogant prick you are?" he finds himself saying.

"You have. Many times."

Pale face suddenly dusted with red. Cheeks aglow. Eyes lowered to the ground quickly. Is this all it would take to shut Malfoy up? How has Harry never figured this out before now? Acquiescence to Malfoy goes against every bone in his body but when it leads to this, surely Harry can manage.

"I like cooking for friends," Harry says in the silence watching Malfoy's head jerk up at the word friends. He seems surprised. He mumbles a quick good night and disappears out of the kitchen.

Harry spends half the night thinking about the past, going over things he thought he knew and things he now knows from Pansy. Things he's long suspected about himself. Things that are becoming clearer with every moment he spends in this house. He falls asleep on the table on top of the hill of parchment he's supposed to have logged by now.

***

Morning. Overcast and wet outside. Hot tea by his arm. Hours of quiet spell analysis on his own while everyone else sleeps in.

***

Hours later, Malfoy's in the kitchen fiddling with the stove. His back is to Harry but Harry can still sense the waves of tension coming off of him. One hand reaches out to pick up the kettle that he'd spent close to five minutes filling.

Harry's trying to focus on his work, he's got eight hours of spell data from last night to analyse, but it's difficult to concentrate when Malfoy's hanging about making noises. He hasn't said a word to Harry except for a mumbled hello when he entered. Suddenly Malfoy turns and catches Harry looking. He's quick to look down at the parchment in front of him.

He hears Malfoy walking over to him, bare feet on the tiled floor. Those same bony pale feet that Harry somehow remembers from Hogwarts, no idea how. Malfoy stands opposite him and reaches down to pick up one of the parchments. Harry looks up then as casually as he can.

Malfoy waves the parchment at him before putting it back down. "Are you finding anything at all in this mission of yours? Or is it just a ploy to get away from actual auror work? All the forms and reports."

He bites down on a smirk, he knows how Malfoy would hate that. And for some reason, lately, he doesn't want to piss Malfoy off. It's a strange change in dynamic that he hasn't yet been able to wrap his head around.

"Yes, I'm sitting here analysing spell data so I can get away from boring auror work. You caught me. Always craving excitement, me."

Grey eyes narrow in suspicion. Pretty mouth pouts. "No need to be so sassy, Potter. I was just asking how long you'll be gracing us with your presence."

He sobers up a little, looks down at the parchment in front him and marks a red cross next to the concealment charm cast around midnight. He shrugs. "It looks like they're getting ready to deliver another batch in a day or two. I should be out of your hair soon, Malfoy."

He doesn't look up to see Malfoy's reaction. Just hears a slow "Good."

Malfoy walks back to the stove then. He stands by the stove for a while, biting his lips and messing with his hair. 

"Malfoy?" Harry says.

His head snaps up. "Yes?"

"It may help if you turn on the stove."

The sudden flush of colour on his pale face is extraordinary. He stalks out of the kitchen without a word. That's becoming a habit, isn't it?

*** 

It's a bank holiday, whatever that means. Draco's happy enough to have an extra day off. They've all congregated in the kitchen for some reason. Draco came in here because Blaise and Greg were watching something horrifically trashy on the telly and he wanted to read.

Pansy showed up a bit later and started talking to Potter. Draco hasn't been paying them any mind though. He's just getting to the bit where the detective is about to get killed by an--

"I need to go outside to check something," Potter loudly announces suddenly. He's out of his chair pulling on his Ministry issue coat. "Cast some analytical spells." Draco doesn't look up from his tea or his book. He couldn't care less about Potter's heroics as an auror.

"Covertly," Potter adds after a moment. If Draco was paying attention, he'd say this conversation seems a little staged. A better actor might be able to pull it off but with Potter's skills, it's shamefully obvious that he and Pansy are having a rehearsed conversation.

As if on cue, Pansy steps closer to the table and her hand lands right next to Draco's teacup. "Well, won't they see you? Find it suspicious to see a stranger sniffing about?" she asks Potter.

Huh. He puts the book down and looks up at Pansy giving him a truly predatory look. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Potter shrugging. The idiot doesn't even notice that they've been caught out. Oblivious, he continues: "Just a friend of yours hanging about. Of course, it'd be much easier if one of you accompanied me." Then, he marches forward with a strangely determined look on his face.

"Come on, Malfoy!" He has the audacity to touch Draco's shoulder as he orders him to follow.

He knows exactly what Pansy's doing. What he doesn't know is why Potter is going along with it. 

"Excuse me?" Draco answers, not moving an inch. Potter turns around surprised. He must expect everyone to follow his orders, to fall over themselves to obey him. _Well, fuck that._

"What?" Potter says in that usually witty way of his.

"If you want me to do you a favour, ask me. Politely."

"Alright, I'll ask you. Don't have to bit my head off!"

 _Why, the gall of this specky bastard!_ "Aren't you a charmer, Potter."

"Oh, and who are you? Merlin himself? Come on!"

"Do me a favour, join the bomb squad."

He follows Potter outside anyway because Pansy pushes him and he ends up falling into Potter who turns at the very last moment and catches him. He does that stupid crooked Saviour smile of his down at Draco while he's holding him like a bloody damsel in distress. Draco straightens up and shoves him away. And once Potter clears his throat and walks out the kitchen, Draco turns to Pansy. "I will slit your throat in your sleep. Slowly."

She shoos him away like a crup. "Go on, lover boy!" she whispers.

And Draco really is going to slit her throat.

***

"What was that spell you wanted to cast?"

"Hmm?"

"The spell, Potter. The one you dragged me out here for so you could cast?"

He throws Draco a sheepish little smile which is utterly annoying. "Oh, I cast it already."

"When?"

"Just now, when we stepped out."

"No, you didn't. Where's your wand?"

He rolls up the left sleeve of his jumper and shows Draco where his wand is tucked. Draco ignores the thick line of black ink he sees peeking out from under the sleeve. Instead, he focuses on the argument at hand. "I didn't see you take it out."

Potter's face looks suspiciously red as he answers. "I didn't need it," he says. Draco can feel himself frowning at this stupid answer before Potter quietly adds, "Cast it wandless."

"What do you mean?" Draco hears himself asking.

"I mean I cast it without a wand." There's more than a hint of snark in his voice and Draco does not appreciate it one bit.

"Oh really? Is that what wandless means?" he snaps.

Potter shrugs. "That's what I've been told."

He wants to reach out and shove Potter over but reconsiders. It would be too childish.

Potter says it's a lovely day for a walk and he'd like to go through that path in the woods and see what's on the other side. It's a bit cool out and Draco didn't grab his coat. He really ought to be going back to the flat if he doesn't want to sniffle for two weeks. He ought to but he walks next to Potter as they go through the wood.

On the other side is a secluded little picnic spot which he already knew because he likes coming here when it's warmer out. Right now, his hands are cold and he forgot his wand on the table. He's not about to ask Potter for a warming charm but then he doesn't have to because Potter's cast it anyway and is pretending like he didn't.

"Let's sit down a minute," Potter says when they reach the wooden benches painted in bright colours. Draco takes a seat opposite Potter but Potter's getting up and walking across to sit next to him. Sits so close that Draco can feel the heat seeping out of him. He looks up to say something but stops when he notices how close Potter's face is. His eyes are huge behind his glasses, green as the bloody wood around them. His irritation at himself for thinking this evaporates the second Potter leans closer. He takes a deep breath, Draco can see his neck bobbing with the effort. "Malfoy," he starts quietly. "Draco." He can't help but shiver at the sound of his name falling from those lips. Potter's eyes watch him keenly. _He knows._

"You must see it. Everyone else does," he says.

Draco has no idea what he means. He can't even bring himself to shake his head, too lost in the proximity he's never before had with Potter. Never other than that time Potter pulled him out of Fiendfyre and onto his broom.

"Ever since you worked at the Ministry that summer, I... I can't--" he stops abruptly. Draco looks up from his mouth because apparently that's what he's been watching without even knowing. His head feels so fogged up. He tries to breathe but it won't come. Air keeps getting stuck in his throat. Potter continues: "I keep thinking about you. I asked for this surveillance op. To see you again."

His eyes bore into Draco begging him to understand what Potter's not saying. He's not sure he does. A hand appears in his field of vision, slowly moves toward his face waiting for him to react. He doesn't. The warm hand lands on his cheek. It's softer than he would've thought. "I fancy you. I think you fancy me too. I really think we could be good together."

He sounds so earnest. So hopeful. So honest.

Draco pulls back from him, stands up quickly. "I can't." He turns around and makes for the flat leaving Potter sitting there on the bench by himself. No, can't go back to the flat. He apparates to mother's place in France. The Ministry will fine him for international apparition from a muggle area but he'll pay the price. He needs to get away from here.

***

She's almost to the end of her episode when the front door opens and she's pausing and running out of the kitchen almost mauling Potter who looks like he's just been told the worst news. "Potter?" she says shaking him by the shoulders because he didn't answer the first two times.

Potter looks up at her with vacant eyes. Smiles. "I'll pack up," he says and walks by her into the kitchen.

She follows him in. "What? Why?"

He's charming the parchments and his gadgets and all to shrink. He's leaving. "What happened?" she asks.

"Spell worked. We have the evidence we needed," he says and fits all of his surveillance things into a pocket. Looks like the auror that first knocked on their door last week. "Thank you for everything. I'd like to see you again sometime, maybe for a drink."

She nods and puts a hand on his arm. He smiles. "Goodbye, Pansy."

***

Draco doesn't come back for hours. She waits for him in the kitchen long after Blaise and Greg have gone to sleep. They asked about Potter in puzzles and riddles pretending they didn't care one way or the other. Asked about the Ministry surveillance business and whether it got sorted or not. She showed them the owl that'd come shortly after Potter left. The Minister for Magic thanking them for their cooperation in bringing down nefarious criminals.

She knows why Potter came here. Knows that he could've caught the Abernathys two days into this madness. Knows that he stuck around for something else.

The front door unlocks. Footsteps down the hall. Figure in the doorway walking into the light. "Why're you still up?" Draco asks quietly. She looks at the muggle clock on the wall - an hour past midnight.

"Waiting for you."

He sighs and walks to the table. Sighs once more and lowers himself to the chair next to her. "Went to see mum."

"Apparition?"

He nods.

"Fine?" she asks.

"Paid," he replies.

"Right."

He leans forward and rests his head on the table. Without thinking, her hand goes to his hair. Fingers carding through soft hair. Two breaths perfectly in sync.

"What happened?" she asks. No answer. "Potter left. Took all of his parchments and everything. An owl from the Ministry came thanking us for our cooperation."

He looks up at her, all pretense fallen away. "I want to but I can't."

She's known for years. Known it since the war. Draco was starting to realise then. Was starting to accept it. Then when Potter spoke for him at the trial, he came to accept it as another cross to bear. Years later when he worked at the Ministry for the summer as part of his reparations, he saw Potter again and something changed. She saw him opening up a little. She saw the possibility. Then summer ended and Draco withdrew into his shell and nothing came of it.

The day Potter showed up here, she knew it was for Draco. She'd hoped Potter's stubbornness would be enough to counter Draco's in his unnecessary endeavor to suffer. Turns out, it wasn't.

"What is wrong with you?" she asks him thinking about everything that's happened in the last few years, about Potter showing up here for one reason alone and what Draco's saying. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I just can't do it--"

"I'm going to slap you into next week, Draco!" she rages. He's got an indignant look on his face and she really is going to slap him if she doesn't put some distance between them. The chair screeches loudly when she gets up. "You've been pining after him for years, moping about and making us all miserable. With your little Potter this and Potter that speeches for a full bloody decade!" A surprised Blaise appears in the doorway followed by Greg's bleary face. "A fucking decade, Draco! Salazar, take me now. I can't do this anymore. Are you fucking with me, Draco Lucius Malfoy?"

"Pansy, watch your lang--"

She lunges. "You watch your head because I'm about to rip it off, you towheaded bastard!"

He jerks back, pulling out of her range. "Pan--"

"You are in love with him, Draco!" she shrieks. Both Blaise and Greg cover their ears but Draco's just frozen. She leans down and shakes him by the shoulder. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You finally had a chance with him and now you're telling me you can't? Where are you getting this fro--"

"It's because I love him, okay!" he snaps suddenly. Eyes wide as if he's surprised himself by saying it. His face falls then, he shakes his head. "I can't.... can't bear the thought of having him and then just losing... I can't. Can't lose anyone else."

"Because he's an auror?" she asks softly, sitting down again. Blaise has moved into the kitchen now. He's keeping his mouth shut which is the right decision. She could probably hex all their bollocks off right now for saying the wrong thing. She's had it up to here with these stupid idiots.

"Yes," Draco whispers stealing her attention away.

She moves her chair closer to his. He wonders if she really gets it. If she'll stop pestering him about this--

"Far be it from me to sing Potter's praises but you do know that he defeated You-know Who, right? One on one, against the darkest wizard of all time and he won. Like, he killed a basilisk at age twelve. Won the Triwizard Tournament at fourteen? Oh Salazar, look what you've made me do now, Draco! Turned me into one of those Potter groupies! Are you happy now, you bastard?"

"But I just..."

"So are you just going to sit here and pine? Pine all your life till he finds someone else and settles down? Then what? You'll just become a recluse, move to France and die alone? Is that your genius plan?"

***

He's re-watching Father Ted now that he's got three consecutive days off from work. Kingsley had insisted.

Mrs. Weasley's casserole sits half empty on the side table because he can't be bothered to go into the kitchen and Kreacher is mad because Harry hasn't been home for days and hasn't given him a chance to serve.

He isn't drunk but he has had one vodka gimlet and it hit the spot so he's buzzed enough that he can happily pretend nothing's happened. And it's not like anything _has_ happened. Only the bloke he's been in love with for a few years has turned him down. It's not that bad, he's still got many things to live for. Teddy's starting muggle school this year and Rosie's just started talking and has been calling him _Hawie_. Work's going well. He'll get over this little hiccup in no time.

On the screen, Father Ted is trying to explain to Father Dougal that those cows far away in the field aren't actually small cows. They just look small because they're far away-- knock knock. Harry pauses the episode to listen and there's a knocking sound once again. It's strange because anyone who's ever visited Harry has come through the floo or have had a key. The house isn't under _Fidelius_ any longer but still no one has ever knocked.

He walks toward the door with small steps so his socked feet don't skid on the wooden floor and he doesn't crack open his skull on the landing. He tries to look through the peephole and remembers taping over it for some stupid reason last year. Fuck!

It can't be someone from the Prophet or anything because it's just gone three in the morning. It also can't be Ron or Hermione or Neville because they all have keys. Luna maybe, she might also be the only one likely to visit him in the middle of the night. It must be her.

He swings open the door ready to see Luna on the other side but it's not. It's someone taller than Luna. He's looking at a very flat coat covered chest right now. His eyes travel up the chest, up the pale neck and meet electric grey eyes. It's him. His breath is fogging in the cool air of the night. Cheeks red. Hair messy as if he's been nervously running his fingers through it. Harry takes a staggered step back when he realises how bloody cool it is outside and he's only wearing a tee shirt and pajamas. He holds the door open and lets his guest in.

Kreacher's watching from behind the kitchen wall and hisses when he sees the person following Harry. "He's pissed at me," Harry mumbles as a way of explanation. He nods.

From a guest's perspective, this is weird. It's three in the morning and there's a half eaten casserole and a bottle of vodka on the table and something paused on the laptop. He watches his guest's eyes darting from the casserole to the vodka before they settle on him. He has no clue what to say. He points to the sofa but gets a head shake in return. Okay.

The wall clock ticks down the seconds. Silence. Harsh breath that could be his or couldn't be, who knows. Clearing of a throat. A step closer, two. His heart rate picking up.

"Harry..."

Breath stuck in throat. Rush of blood deafening him. A finger under his chin tilting his face up. Silver eyes. "I think... I have been in love with you since you barged into the Wizengamot mid-hearing, like a hippogriff in a wandshop, insisting to give evidence."

Heart racing. Pulse beating against his neck. Mind whirring.

"Or perhaps it was before that. When you saved me from the fiendfyre like the Saviour that you are. Perhaps I've got a thing for you saving me." A slight uptick of his lips. "Or perhaps it was when you made it a habit to walk by my dingy little office at the Ministry four times a day trying to be subtle but failing miserably."

Ears on fire. Embarrassment making him look down but that bloody finger under his chin not letting him break eye contact. Merlin, Harry didn't know he was being so obvious. He thought no one noticed him walking from one end of the corridor to the other down in Finance several times a day that summer. He thought Ron was the only one who knew and teased him mercilessly. 'I just want to keep an eye on him. Y'know, check if he's up to something', he'd insisted only for Ron to laugh in his face and call him a moping sod.

Grey eyes piercing through him. Mirth in them making his ears burn even more. "You didn't think I wouldn't notice, did you?" he teases. "I think everyone at the Ministry noticed."

Godric's fucking bollocks! So everyone saw him going down to the lowest level in the Ministry everyday. They all saw him pretending to be looking for some office down there. Saw him put in claims he'd never claimed before or since. They've all known how bloody gone he is this whole time.

Wait, that means Malfoy knew it too. He's known all along.

"Perhaps it was before everything started. Before the war," he's saying but Harry can't really process it. He's too busy thinking what it means. Why, if he's known all this time, hasn't he said anything? Done anything? Why did he turn Harry down this morning?

A step back. Look of surprise on Malfoy's face. Flash of something else. Fear?

"You said you can't," Harry whispers. "If you've known all along and haven't said anything, then you obviously don't feel the same. Why the fuck are you here then?"

Is this some sort of sick joke? Has he miscalculated Malfoy by miles? Is he looking at the same Malfoy who joked about the death of his parents? Has Harry somehow conjured up a reformed version of Malfoy that doesn't actually exist?

"Listen to me, Potter." Any hint of gentleness from that voice gone. Replaced by a cold hard edge Harry recognises all too well. "I'll say this once and you're going to believe me or I'm going to take that hideous umbrella stand I saw on the way in and shove stand and umbrella up your arse until the thing comes out your bloody throat. Okay?"

He's never been one for being told what to do but something about the way Malfoy's looming over him and perhaps that very elaborate threat makes him nod.

"Good." He closes the gap between them once again. He's taller than Harry by a few inches and seems to take great joy in making it apparent. "I've lost my fair share in this life and am not too keen on losing anything or anybody else. I know you'll understand better than most." Harry nods. "Then you'll also understand that falling in love with an auror wouldn't be the smartest way to go about life if one has such reservations." Realization sinking in. Hope. "Falling in love with an auror who has a hero complex and insists on saving everyone no matter the risk to his own life would be downright foolish. Very ill-advised."

"Very," Harry agrees wondering when his voice got so breathy.

"Self-destructive," Malfoy adds so softly that Harry can barely hear him.

"Yes," Harry whispers because they're so close and there's no need to speak aloud. There's no need to speak at all. His mouth is touching air one second and soft lips the next. His breath gets caught somewhere between Draco's lips brushing against his and long fingers at the back of his neck trailing up into his hair. They pull and he gasps, lips falling open on a moan that gets swallowed by a wet mouth. A wet mouth that he's had so many dreams about he's lost count. Teeth teasing his lips, biting down and making him weak at the knees. Hand on his waist, fingers teasing under the band of his pajamas.

"Fuck..."

"Let's not get hasty," the git whispers against his ear as if he isn't the one teasing at things Harry's been dreaming of for years. As if it's not his fingers sliding under Harry's boxers and leaving a trail of heat that goes all the way down to-- "Are you rutting against my leg, Harry?"

Shit! Fuck!

"I--" he starts but doesn't get to finish. Malfoy's mouth is on his again, wet tongue tangling with his own. An insistent thigh between his legs. Hard line against his own thigh. He's moving, pulling Malfoy along. Falling to the carpet, Malfoy falling with him. Landing on the soft rug, Malfoy between his legs. Mouths attached again, hands pushing Malfoy's coat off. Then, he remembers magic and ends up vanishing everything off Malfoy in his enthusiasm. An embarrassed chuckle that gets swallowed by Malfoy's red red mouth. His own clothes vanishing the next second and hot skin meeting hot skin. He'll take his time studying the lean body above him but for now all he can do is match Malfoy thrust for thrust. Feel hardness against his own, wet streak on his stomach and Malfoy's mouth on his shoulder biting and sucking.

"Fuck! Oh Merlin!" he yells when Malfoy's hand finds its way between them and wraps around Harry. Wraps around them both. "Oh, fuck me!"

"I will. Many times in many different positions."

He opens his eyes and finds Malfoy looking down at him. Maybe it's the words or maybe it's Malfoy's hand on him or maybe it's the damned eyes but Harry can't hold on any longer. He's biting down on his lip and coming undone right there on the living room carpet with Malfoy sniggering over him.

Later when Harry's made Malfoy beg and pant his name oh so devoutly, he lies with an arm thrown over his eyes and Malfoy heaving beside him. He asks what made Malfoy laugh earlier. Another chuckle. "Just the fact that I made you come by saying I was going to fuck you. That's quite a skill to have, you know. Something I could use to my benefit very easily." A sparkle in those silver eyes. A threat. A promise?

Harry shrugs and rolls over on top of Malfoy. "You're welcome to use it whenever you want," he says placing a soft kiss on Malfoy's bruised mouth. He wants to wake up and do this everyday for the rest of his life. If this is all he gets to do till he's dead and buried, it'll be enough. More than.

Malfoy--Draco smiles under his lips. Hand on his neck pulling him up. "Careful, you might regret that," he warns with a voice that goes straight to places that need some time before they can function again. Or maybe not.

"I'd shag you in front of the whole Ministry if that's what you wanted."

Draco's face screws up in disgust. "Oh, why would you do that, Potter? Now, you've ruined it."

He's pushing at Harry's shoulder and sitting up. "Wha'?" he asks but Draco's already standing up and pulling Harry's boxers on which wow but not the time. "What?" Harry asks again.

"The thought of shagging in front of those wrinkly old cunts is not appealing in the least to me, Potter."

Without even waiting for Harry to get up, he's walking toward the landing and blind panic shoots through Harry's gut and he's rushing after Draco and almost slipping on the floor hurting himself. "Wait!" he shouts and makes it round the corner and Draco's not going for the door. He's on the stairs. "Oh."

Single pale eyebrow raised in question.

"I thought you were leaving," Harry mumbles under his breath embarrassingly bringing his hands in front of his groin.

"I'm not," he says simply and holds Harry's gaze. He's saying more than that surely. "Now come along, Potter. We've got some fucking to do."

Harry doesn't have to be told twice. He's up the stairs in a second. Stopped by a hand on his chest on the last step. "Wait, do _you_ want to fuck at the Ministry?" He can't control the heat that climbs up his neck and exposes him. "Why, you sick little cunt!"

"You've got some mouth on you, Malfoy! I've never heard you swear so much."

"Oh, I'll show you what a mouth I've got."

Harry's brain short circuits a little. "Get up the stairs, go!"

"Slow down, Potter. You'll get us both killed!"

"Go, go!"

***

Pansy gets a dozen pineapple pastries at work the next day. She can't decide whether it's Draco getting his revenge for calling him names yesterday by sending her sweets she can't resist and will surely gain more weight from or if it's him thanking her for making him get his head out of his arse.

She begrudgingly shares the pastries with Erika who looks at her with wide eyes mistaking the gesture for some sort of corny proposal. Erika says yes and Pansy doesn't correct her.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to write any smut but then the scene just happened and it got written on its own and yeah. The one scene that led to all of this was the Golden Girls scene where the detective says he has to go check something out and asks Dorothy to go with him and I somehow wrote a whole fanfiction from that one scene. And I had to include at least one cheesecake scene.
> 
> The joke about the umbrella stand is stolen from Adrian McKinty's novel 'Police at the Scene and They Don't Look Friendly'. I liked the vivid detail of the threat and could easily imagine Draco saying it. 
> 
> As I said, I've never written from a female character's POV so this was my endeavour to rectify this. I absolutely loved writing Pansy! She was never one of my favourites but she is now. 
> 
> Important - I am not justifying the Slytherins' actions. You have your own views and I have mine. I think they were children, in way beyond their heads with no good influence at home. 
> 
> Let me know what you think because come on!

**Author's Note:**

> So, a lot of this story is from Pansy's POV. I recently had a realisation about my own writing: I don't write a lot of female characters. I don't like this. So, I wanted to write a female character who is central to the plot. Hence, Pansy Parkinson. Let me know how I did.


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